She’s got red, black, and white hair
It’s a tragic affair.
Her dresses aren’t cheap
But her looks say she cares.
She’s a formula to her daily chores.
It says look at me
I’m not a w***e.
She is the tragedy of forgotten love
And modern heresy.
Paint yourself in the sharpest colors
Something that says please look at me.
She is a tragedy if ever one I saw.
She is Juliet in a real short skirt.
She is Antigone in a low cut shirt.
Gotta hear her heals click-clack come from halfway down the hall.
She’s got the golden shirt and golden heart
Sleeps alone in an unpaid car.
She got greying eyes
And her faded jeans were fraying from the start.
She’s a formula like all the modern girls.
They all say look at me.
I’m not a w***e.
She is a tragedy if ever one I saw.
She is Juliet in a real short skirt.
She is Antigone in a low cut shirt.
She is the tragedy of forgotten love
And modern heresy.
Paint yourself in the sharpest colors
Something that says please look at me.
All of them talk in some sort of secret meeting
To see how best to torture me
And all the other guys
With their cute little plastic sighs.
You want the blonde.
Want the blonde.
With the flowing sweet hair.
Want the blonde.
Want the blonde.
With the perfect blue stare.
But she’s just the same, kid.
She just the same.
It’s all the same, kid.
It’s all the same.
She is the tragedy of forgotten love
And modern heresy.
Paint yourself in the sharpest colors
Something that says please look at me.
She’s a formula to all the modern girls.
They all say look at me.
I’m not a w***e.